geminil0vr

[geminil0vr]

French Navy | Peter Parker

I wanted to control it, but love, I couldn't hold it.

SUMMARY | Finding themselves forced to share an apartment for their first year at MIT due to an error in the listing, Peter and his relentless new roommate forge an unlikely partnership.

CONTENT | college!peter, college!au, fluff, roommates to lovers trope, slow burn, friends to lovers trope, minor jealousy plot, The Bear & Hell's Kitchen mention, reader spends Christmas at his, first kiss

WORD COUNT | 7.5k

Whatever she was expecting, it wasn't this.

He's hunched over a black suitcase right in the centre of the living room, throwing items astray, looking for something. She can tell just by a peek over his shoulder that he didn't pack with anything but survival in mind: his toothbrush is nestled between two crumpled t-shirts. She's standing in the doorway, brows knitted, eyes inching away from him every now and then to check the number on the door. This can't be right.

She'd gotten lucky when she discovered that her college had set up a program to organise struggling new students into (barely) furnished apartments together. But while she'd love to take a moment to appreciate the space, the sofa set in the centre of the cramped but homey flat, the wall boarding the living room from the little kitchen and its counters with coffee rings burnt into the laminate, even the painting left askew on the wall by the inhabitants before her; the boy right in the middle of it is proving a distraction.

Even with the door flung wide open like the few others down the hall, she opts to rap her knuckles against it. His grip tightens on a half-empty shampoo bottle, turning in surprise. After a moment, he goes to speak, but then holds his breath; tilts his head.

"I don't think..."

"Have you got the right room?"

"As I previously mentioned, there's really nothing we can do for you here at MIT. Unfortunately, there was a mix-up with Mr. Parker's name," Peter's roommate stifles a smile by pressing her fingers into her lips, "And we've already assigned you two to the same room: legally, contractually, however you'd like to call it. Every other student in this program is already in a pair or, for respective reasons, on their own. You two are just going to have to grin and bear it, I'm afraid."

She inhales, sucking her bottom lip into her mouth, and Peter shuffles in his seat. The vice-principal leans forward, elbows pressing into the polished wood; he looks like he's been pulled straight out of a magazine, every short coil of his hair finger-spun, hands folded and pleading just a few inches above his desk.

"Look, you two," They glance at each other, "I know this isn't how you expected the move-in to go, but as far as I'm concerned, you have the most spacious apartment out of any of the other students, as well as two separate bedrooms, decent rent... God, the last people who stayed there even left you that little TV set. You got lucky," Peter couldn't be more tired of that word if he tried.

"Even if this isn't the gender-sorted accommodation you'd hoped for, I am certain that you can learn to live with each other." He smiles in that way that lets them know the conversation is over, and a tense beat of silence permeates the room before the new students lift reluctantly from their seats.

"Thank you, Sir," Her new roommate flattens his lips together with a weak attempt at a smile. She chews at her tongue. The man grins like a politician, a great-white, teeth bright and gleaming.

So, they've pushed back the furniture (spare as it is) and are sat cross-legged in the middle of the carpet, beige fibres scratching at their skin. It's far too hot for the start of September. Yet as the evening sets in on them, the windows, littered with fingerprints, begin to let in a gentle flow of air. She rolls back her shoulders, feeling the joints click, and twiddles a pen between her fingers.

"Okay. If we're doing this, we're gonna need some ground rules."

Peter nods fervently, voice cracking with uncertainty, "Yeah, of course."

"Alright! One. I get to pick my room first..."

His arms uncross from over his chest, "Wait, how is that fair?"

"I thought it was ladies first," She lifts her eyes.

"Yeah, on airplanes."

She frowns, "No, that's not... okay, whatever. Apparently chivalry is dead," He frowns back, and she scribbles out Rule One in her notepad, "So we'll toss a quarter."

She's back at half past 8, shoulders heavy. Without replying, she lets the door swing shut behind her, drops her bag right in the middle of the walkway and slumps down onto the side of the couch. She buries her head into her hands to muffle a scream.

Peter straightens anxiously from his place at the kitchen counter, "Uh, hey... are you okay?"

"Customer service is going to kill me. I am going to die, and it's gonna be at the hands of customer service," She drops her head back into the cushions, "And no one even cares."

"Oh, God, I thought something was wrong," His shoulders relax briefly.

She drops her hands to the couch, head tilting back lazily to her roommate of 6 days, lamenting, "This is my swan song, roomie. This is serious."

His brows raise, and he rolls his lips into his mouth, voice pitching, "Yeah, no, I know that, I understand," He anticipates a flare of anger, but she hasn't got it in her after an 8 hour shift. Instead, she moves to lean her head against the armrest, staring at the TV with an almost childish level of desperation.

"Peter?"

"Yeah?" He wavers cautiously, eyeing the back of her head. Such an uptick of emotion isn't his forte, and certainly not with the roommate he's only just getting used to.

Her lips blow out, eyes closing. She speaks quietly. "Do you know how to put on Hell's Kitchen?"

His eyelids flutter, "We don't..." He clears his throat, "We can't do Hell's Kitchen on there. It's like three thousand years old."

"Just find a way."

They've gone 3 weeks without any real problem. Minus the toothbrush, and the chore sheet, and the recycling. I mean, something was destined to happen half a month into their roommateship, some earth-shattering discovery bound to be made: Peter can't be trusted in the kitchen.

"How did you... Peter, how did you even manage that?"

They both stare dumbstruck at the charred remains of two chicken breasts, sat right in the middle of their brand new frying pan. By some miracle, the fire alarm has finally stopped blaring. She carefully leans over to click the stovetop off.

"I feel like I gave you one job."

"You did, yeah." His voice is breathy, tongue pushing against his cheek.

"Just to cook the chicken. Like, just keep an eye on it. Flip it."

"Yeah."

"And... how..."

"I don't know."

"I don't think this is gonna work," She sighs, hand flat on her forehead, the other at her hip. He stills, "We need to redo the chore sheet."

His expression grows desperate. They engage in a staring match, and Peter's always had a knack for knowing when he's lost a fight (apart from that one time, and the other few).

After a few moments, her eyes catch the stove again, "Oh, the pan is screwed."

"I know," He sounds like a kid.

"I just bought that," She breathes out, voice small.

"I'm sorry."

"I feel like I'm on The Bear right now, and you're the guy doing meth in the back alley."

He pauses, "When did that happen?"

"Oh my God," She turns, "You haven't even watched season two. Who are you?"

"Was I supposed to?"

"Put the pan in the sink," She taps on her phone, engrossed, "Hey, we have apple cider vinegar, right?" He blinks, and she breathes out with a huff. She begins to inch around the corner, but turns back, "And you're buying takeout. You know how much chicken costs these days? You owe me."

6 weeks, and she's bursting through the front door, "Petra!"

"I told you to stop calling me that," He calls from his room, the wall of privacy soon shattered when she pushes open the door, jumping up and down.

She's breathing hard, like she ran up here, and for a moment he really thinks she's about to collapse, which would be an awful affliction for him considering it's her night to do the dishes, and he's grown rather fond of her. She's invading every inch of his space, cramped with furniture and cluttered with papers, and he finds he doesn't mind it much. Her energy is boundless. As is her use of the name MIT gave him; the one that got them stuck here in the first place.

"I'm doing my paper."

"I got it," She bounces right into his spinning desk chair, facing him where he's horizontal on his bed (laptop burning into his thighs) with her legs kicking and her fingers tapping the armrests.

"What is it? If you found someone to crack The Sims 3 for you, I'm not gonna celebrate. You know it's against my values."

"That's an unfortunate no," She pauses, "Do you think I could find someone to do that for me, though?"

"Dude."

"Whatever: I got that barista's number. You know, the hot one, at Hayden's? It was kind of an accident, but I asked them out, and now I don't know what to wear. Should I look smart? Or casual? Do you think this is like, a date thing?"

"Oh." He nods, confused. "Uh, maybe?"

"They texted me like, 5 minutes ago." She sticks her phone into his face. It reads, 'Next Fri prolly, see u at 8, get the Red I think.' Then, 'South Street.' "What does that mean?"

"Uh..."

"Forget it. You're no help." She stares into her phone intensely, before her eyes lift, "Do you think they like me?" She tilts her head, gaze probing.

"I think... that romance is alive. And well," He gives her his best attempt at a smile.

She hops up, still buzzing with energy and nearing the door, one hand on the frame of it. "But not chivalry. I can't believe you made me take the bad room."

"What do you mean? Your room is the biggest one," She rolls her eyes, "And we tossed a coin."

"But do I have any of this beautiful, natural light? I don't think so!"

A day later, she's stuffing toast into her mouth at the counter, hair messy and eyes heavy with sleep. Her arms ache from pushing furniture against the floorboards. The weather's been getting colder lately, and the floor chills through her socks. He sits across from her, elbows against the laminate as he shovels down cereal.

"God, Peter, that sun is blinding in the morning. Holy shit."

"Fucking... piece of crap."

Peter creaks open the door, eyes tired and a touch bloodshot. He'd been working late on another Biochem paper when he heard her swearing to herself, trying to get the keys in.

"Jesus, are you okay?"

She looks up at him from where she's crouched, stumbling slightly with her key in her hand. She stands, "Oh, shit, did I wake you up?"

"No, I..." He watches as she moves past him and into their apartment, throwing her keys onto the sofa and sniffing, "Did you... how was your date?"

When she turns to look at him, he can finally see how drunk she is, hair pinned up, only a few tendrils cascading down the neckline of her nicest dress. As she shrugs off her jacket, he finds that her eyes are bloodshot, too. "Oh, good." She smiles bitterly, but it's weak.

"What happened?"

"Nothing, Peter. Thanks for the... for opening the door. Just go back to sleep."

He frowns, shaking his head, "I wasn't sleeping. What's wrong?"

She laughs thickly, tilting her head up: this was the very last thing she wanted. She swallows and eyes the ceiling, "They stood me up. So I had a nice few drinks for one," For emphasis, she sticks out her index finger.

His lips turn down, eyebrows rising. "A few?"

She licks at her lips and finally looks back at him, "A couple, yeah."

She sucks at her teeth as he stands, unsure what to do, "Maybe... just stay there, I'll get you some... water."

Her nostrils flare and she flops down onto the sofa. She just wanted to go to her room and pray that her mattress swallowed her whole, but instead she hears the tap, and the footsteps of her roommate of 7 weeks plodding towards her in fuzzy slippers she would make fun of if she could gather the energy. She takes the cold glass and he watches carefully as she downs half of it, moving to set it onto the coffee table but nearly missing the mark by a couple inches. He catches it in one sharp and careful movement with his palm, quietly lowering it onto the table.

"I'm, uh... I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Wasn't your fault, Parker."

His mind is frantic, searching for something to stop her face from crumpling; she wakes the next morning, blanket-covered on the sofa with a pounding head, her phone out of charge and his propped up against an empty glass, still playing an episode of Hell's Kitchen. From here, she can see him through a crack in the door, curled up in his desk chair. He's drafting an email to his professor pleading for an extended deadline on the paper. They never talk about it, but she stops using his conditioner; starts making every dinner for two.

"Get your ass out here, Parker! Halloween is slipping through our fingers!"

"I feel stupid."

"You are stupid. There's a charm to that." He emerges from his room in a half-assed, Craigslist Batman costume. It's baggy in all the wrong places, and she claps a hand over her mouth.

"Stop laughing! I'm only gonna wear the mask."

"No, no, I'm not laughing," She laughs, "You look like a real superhero."

He blanches, "No, I don't."

She grins, teeth clamping down on her bottom lip, "No, you don't."

They're tipsy at the MIT Halloween bash, surrounded by classmates and for whatever reason, sticking to each other. Two months into the school year they've found their stride, making a few friends here and there and finally having something to talk about over their occasional shared dinners; a new rival or group project. But in the heat of the crowd, they just seem to pull back. Moving and hoping as if underwater.

They blink away the blur of the strobe lights, "Petra?"

"What?"

"I feel like it's either get drunker or go home."

"Should we flip a coin or something?"

"Oh, fool me once, Parker."

"You got the room you wanted in the end, didn't you?"

She hums, avoiding his eyes.

'You have to be kidding me."

Soon, they're drunk out of their minds and pushing furniture from one room to the other. It's 3 am, and their neighbours want them dead. She groans, giving up on his chest of drawers and rolling onto the floor.

"You are not pulling your weight here," He whines.

"Eat shit."

He slumps down, legs splayed out on the carpet of the cluttered living room.

"Where's my bed?"

"Your room. No. My room." Her head lolls to look at him.

"Our room?" He opts.

"We should get bunk beds."

He leans back against his bedside table, thinking, "Don't laugh."

"What? Why?" She grins lazily, pulling herself up with her hands behind her. He grins back.

"I have a bunk bed back home."

"Now it makes sense." She leans forward.

"What makes sense?" His brows furrow, still smiling.

"Why you're a virgin loser."

"Mauritz is coming in 5. I could cancel right now."

"No, Petra, please." But he's slowly lifting the phone over his head. She watches frantically as the little illustration of Mauritz gets closer.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" He doesn't cede, "You get girls, you're a playboy!"

"Playboy?" Here, she cries out, and begins to wrestle for it.

"You have... you have notches on your bedpost, please! I'll do the dishes forever!"

He yelps and they're a tangle of limbs, bitch-slapping eachother and giggling like idiots, both losers within their own tug of war and rolling away in order to surrender.

For a moment, they take a breath, snickers growing few and far between. He eyes her with another laugh, tilting his head in an attempt to capture her in the blur of his vision, "You really think so?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Just don't be weird."

"Why would I be weird? Do you think I'm weird?"

"Ned, just..."

"Hi, guys!" She comes beaming around the corner, speaking with her mouth full until Peter gives her a look. She swallows, "Hello."

Ned smiles wide, mouth open and looking from Peter to her for a moment too long. Peter's head drops. "This is Ned."

"I've heard great things. And I made cookies! They're really dry, too much flour, but if you sandwich them with frosting it works, I swear."

Ned's grin grows impossibly larger, "You're a genius."

A couple hours later, and, "See, this is why I didn't want you guys to meet."

"We're just playing Mario Kart!"

"Yeah, on your phones, without me."

"You always cheat!" Her and Ned exclaim at the same time. Peter appreciates his roommate of 2 and a half months, but cannot wait for her to leave for her shift. Plus, Bullet Bill is not cheating.

"I can't believe you'd gatekeep the second most wonderful person in your life from me like this." She says, proceeded by a string of hushed curses when she falls back into fourth place.

Ned turns with wide eyes, controlling his car from his peripheral, "Second?"

She doesn't look up, "Always have to look out for number 1, babe."

He pauses, looks up, nods. "You're so right."

"Don't make this Craigslist Batman Costume all over again. I'm not waiting another twenty minutes."

"I'm not! I can't get my tie right," His voice cracks.

"Let me in."

"Just... wait."

"Open the door, you big dummy." She's found the courtesy not to barge in after multiple embarrassing incidents that she's still struggling to shake out of her head. Seeing your roommate in only his boxers isn't weird. Thinking about it isn't weird. You're weird.

He groans in exasperation and finally just swings it open, clad in a rented suit, his blazer strewn across the bed.

"Very fancy."

"Stop making fun of me."

"I'm not!" She grins, "You look fancy! All for your smart people dinner."

"It's not a smart people dinner."

"Oh, yeah? Enlighten me."

"It's a..." She puffs out an exhale, "Dinner for excelling students."

"So..."

"It's a smart people dinner."

In the midst of all this, she's already snatched his black tie and wrestled it out of a knot.

"Come here, Petra."

"Peter."

"Or should I say, Mr. Parker? Sir Lord Parker?"

"Actually, you can stick with Petra."

"May I please do your tie, Sir, because you can't do it to save your life, Sir?"

He's fighting a smile at her attempt at a British accent, and simply turns around and towards the mirror. She's standing behind him, and wraps it underneath his collar, efficiently tying and tightening it to her liking as she glances back and forth from the mirror to over his shoulder. She pauses with a frown until she identifies the problem, going to unbutton the very top of his shirt, wholly unprepared for how her knuckles brushing against his collarbone would make each hair on the back of her neck rise.

"You looked uptight. That's better," She inhales shakily, unsure of where this feeling started or where it ends; she'd rather not find out. She clears her throat and they lock gazes in the mirror. His shoulders unwind. They both take a breath, and smile.

"Oh... thanks. Thank you."

"No problem, Batman." He smiles despite himself, turning to face her. She pats his tie. "You're gonna kill it. Make 'em wanna go home, quit their degree and move back to their mom's house. Or aunt's. My bad."

"Shut up."

She's humming along to Camera Obscura the same night when she hears an airy laugh that isn't Peter's, and the clink of his keys in the door. She holds her breath to hear better, listens to hushed whispers and finally his bedroom door clicking shut. The next morning she's skipping her first class and reading one of Peter's books, avoiding him until his new friend leaves, and until he's out the door too.

It has been three days, closing in on the start of December, and she's cursing herself out when she hears the front door creak open. She's successfully stayed out of his way this far, for a reason she can't quite place: maybe it's that she didn't want to look him in the eye, wanted to leave the discomfort and the misplaced anger be, to stale at the bottom of the pit she'd dug for herself the second she thought she could play pretend. And she could've sworn she'd had his schedule down pat, but he's home far too early and she can't leave his leftovers for dinner in the fridge anymore.

He's just as surprised to see her. He doesn't understand why it feels like something has shifted.

"Oh, hi." He's standing in the entryway of the kitchen, bag slung over his shoulder and she's chewing at her lip.

"Hey, Parker!" She smiles, but it's more of a grimace, and she clears her throat, looking into the pan of broccoli she's steaming. "I'm making dinner."

"Yeah, uh, thank you." He swallows, putting his bag on the counter, staring at her like the moment he doesn't she's going to disappear. That's how it's been, these past few days. He takes a bottle of water from the fridge. For once, she isn't speaking, just silently cooking, and he can't help himself, "Are you okay?"

She stills for a beat, then continues stirring the food, back turned to him. "Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

"No, it's just... I don't know. I haven't seen you in a while."

Guilt gnaws at her. She glances at him briefly over her shoulder, "Sorry, Peter. Been busy."

"No, it's... it's okay." He chews at his cheek, taking another sip of water, "Did you, uh, wanna watch The Bear tonight?"

She whips around to face him. "What?"

He rolls his lips into his mouth, "Did you..." he starts.

"Yes." She grins, looking straight at him for the first time in what feels like forever as she hastily stirs, and the knot in his stomach eases away.

They don't talk about it, but that night, watching him sing along with Ritchie to Taylor Swift with only the light of the TV shadowing his features, she knows. Knows there's something inescapable about this; she couldn't hold a grudge against him if she tried.

"I can't believe you got laid, Pete."

He chokes on his ice cream. Composes himself, ears beet red. "What are you... what are you talking about?" His voice is breaking.

She looks at him, knowingly. "Come on. You even broke the no being loud after 11 pm rule. I can't believe you, you dog."

He's burying his face in his hands. She snickers as he folds deeper into the sofa, his apology muffled against his skin.

"Oh don't be," She grins, eyeing him and ready to strike, "I'm just so proud of you for finally losing your V-card."

"Shut up!"

"It's a really important time in a woman's life."

He squeezes his eyes shut, hands going to his forehead, voice turning quiet, "I'm not a virgin."

"Not anymore you're not."

"I hate you so much."

"A little to the left. Wait, no, up. Right there. Beautiful."

"Why are you making me decorate the tree?" When he successfully places the golden bauble, he steps back to look at their pathetic, last-minute version of a Christmas tree. It's lopsided, plastic, and discounted due to a lot of missing faux-pine needles.

"You deserve to do all the hard work, considering you're the one abandoning me to go spend Christmas in New York with your hot aunt."

"Stop calling her hot. And I'm not abandoning you. You have me the morning of Christmas Eve!"

"How is Santa gonna find you if you keep leaving all the time?"

He gives her a look and she cedes, with a small smile playing at her lips. He hangs a red ornament this time, and she hums in appreciation. He stretches his arms overhead, and she ignores the strip of skin that exposes itself, instead lifting his mug of hot cocoa from the coffee table and taking a sip. He'd been expecting her to steal it, though he thought making them one each would sate her at least a little bit.

"Hey."

"Yeah, Petra?"

"Are you... Gonna be okay, you know, on your own?"

Her eyes rise to meet his, and she clears her throat, "Yeah, off course. I mean, you know they pay twice as much just to work on Christmas, so... it'll be worth it."

He frowns, covers it up, "Yeah."

"And plus, I get to play Christmas music at full blast no matter what time it is when you're gone. I'm living the dream life." She smiles teasingly, tilts her head, tries and fails to reassure him.

"I'll be back the day after Boxing Day, yeah?"

"Yeah, yeah, Parker. Bring back a nice little polaroid of Aunt May for me, won't you?"

"Absolutely not."

When Peter leaves for the airport on Christmas Eve, she gets lonelier than she'd like to admit. She glares at the space under the tree, stands in the doorway of Peter's room, moves all of his furniture an inch away from the wall so he gets freaked out when he comes home, moves it back again because she feels bad, watches a vine compilation, wallows on the couch. If she can't survive 16 minutes, she has no idea how she'll survive the next two days. She nearly has a heart attack when she hears the keys in the door. Peter rushes through, entirely out of breath, suitcase rolling to a stop beside him.

"Do you wanna come with me?"

She looks back at him, wide eyes to wild ones, "What?"

"Do you wanna come with me?"

A moment passes. Then, "I'll call work."

At the bus station, they put savings together to buy the cheapest and sketchiest last-minute seats they can find. She calls work, and they give her her second strike. She thinks she'll live. Peter spends an hour and a half on the phone trying to get a refund for his plane ticket, and they spend most of the ride getting their seats pummelled in by two 5 year olds. When things begin to quiet down, she falls asleep, head dropping onto his shoulder and hair tickling the nape of his neck. He doesn't say it, but he's glad he asked.

Looking back, he probably should've told May. In the rush of it all, getting the taxi to turn back, he wasn't really thinking straight. But, although at first she's mildly irritated and overwhelmed, his roommate seems to charm it out of her. When she's off, having insisted to wash the few dishes in the sink, May leans into him.

"I like her, Petey."

He rolls his eyes, "Yeah, I know, May."

"You didn't tell me she was so pretty."

His ears are turning red, voice rasping, "I didn't think of it, I guess."

"You're telling me you haven't thought about it? At all?" She grins like the Cheshire cat; but she only wants what's best for him. Always has.

"No, May, God!" He's lying. This only rubs it in, brings every smothered feeling back to the surface. It wasn't his intention: he just didn't want her to be alone.

She re-enters, wiping her hands against a dish towel, hair mussed and slightly static from resting her head on the fibres of his sweater on the ride over. May jumps up.

"Thank you so much," May places both hands on her shoulders, and proceeds to pull her into a hug. Her eyes widen, but after a second she lets out an airy laugh, wrapping her arms around May's frame. "You're an angel."

Peter locks eyes with her, heart pulsing in his chest, and they smile softly at each other like a well-kept secret.

"Aw, is this you and Ned?" She's grabbing everything she can, trying to get a real sense of Peter, Peter as a preteen, Peter as he was then, Peter as he is now; she finds it in his packaged figurines, the clutter on his old desk, the pictures tacked to the wall. It's all exactly as he left it.

"Yes, yes it is." His brows curve upwards in exasperation; she nearly took his most prized action figure out of its box. He's fighting for his life, here. When she sees how nervous he looks, she sighs, finishes up her snooping for the evening and opts to clumsily make her way up the ladder. She flops on her back on the top bunk and stretches her legs out like a satisfied cat, the mulled wine sitting warm in her stomach.

"Your aunt's really nice."

He tilts his head up as if he can see her from where he's lying, head propped up on the frame of the bottom bunk, and quits fiddling with his old Gameboy, "Yeah. She is."

"And she likes me more than you. That's a plus," She's staring at the ceiling, hands laced across her stomach.

"I don't blame her," His eyes crease in the corners, thinking of Ned's visit over a month ago now, but he regrets the words as soon as they leave him. If she's taken aback she doesn't show it, but she turns her head and begins to trail her eyes over the movie posters taped haphazardly to the wall. A silence passes between them, amplified in the late evening.

"Why did you invite me here?" She says, softly.

He blinks, lips pursing slightly, "I don't know. I think... I think, I just didn't want you to be alone. And it's nice to have you here."

"I would've been okay, you know." There's something desperate in the way she says this, like she can make the both of them believe it.

"I know."

Her gaze drops down to their suitcases, leaning against each other on the rug. "But... I'm happy I'm here." This is the most that she'll admit, tonight.

He hesitates. Then, "I'm happy you're here too."

She chews her lip at the quiet rasp in his voice, smooths her hands over his Star Wars covers, twitches her nose.

"Enough of this sappy stuff. You're destroying my reputation."

"Your reputation?" He smiles, shuffling down to rest his head on the pillow, forearms supporting his head.

"You know: playboy, notches on my bedpost." In the quiet, a feeling settles between them like the snow outside. "Now, tell me how you managed to bag the smartest girl at your high school with these sheets."

He shrugs. "Well... we went to her house."

She abruptly swings her head over the side of the bed, looking down at him, "Peter Parker, you animal!"

"To do homework!" He exclaims, eyes widening as he sits up, "Not..."

"Not any rule-two-breaking, single bed shenanigans?"

"Please don't bring that up again."

"Did they find it hot that you both enjoy Physics?"

"Stop," He lies down again, clasping his hands over his ears.

"I mean, they must have: you two were going at it so hard I couldn't even send in my assignment." This was an exaggeration. She could only hear them if she pressed her ear against the wall. Which she only did once.

He frowns, red, "Didn't you have, like, three weeks to do it?"

"Mind your business," She lies back down too, "I don't wanna talk about this anymore."

They smile to themselves. They whisper goodnight, but he can't fall asleep.

"Dude, Santa came so hard."

"Please don't say it like that."

They're on the bus back and she's fiddling through her bag, fingers sifting over the boxes of chocolates and pastries May packaged up for her, just so she'd have something to open on the day.

"I love your aunt. I wish she would adopt me too."

"Hate to break it to you, but you're gonna have to go through some really messed up stuff before you unlock that option."

She turns her head to him against the seat, giddy and grinning, "Well, teach me your ways, Obi-Wan."

"You know that's not the quote."

They're getting through the door the night after Boxing Day, feeling heavy from grabbing fast food before getting home, and an afternoon of travelling. When she's slipping off her shoes and rolling her shabby suitcase through the door to her bedroom, Peter stops her.

"Hey, uh..." She turns, one palm wrapped around the handle of it, the other pressed against her doorframe, "I actually did get you something."

Her lips curve upwards at the edges, brows furrowing, "For Christmas?"

"Yeah." He looks like he's about to take something out of his pocket, when she rushes into her room, slamming the door behind her. He's about to question whether he's being rejected when it's flung open again, and this time, she's holding something poorly wrapped in both hands. She's out of breath.

"Me too. But I forgot to bring it with me. I was just gonna leave it under the tree."

He bites at the inside of his cheek so he doesn't break out into an ear-splitting grin. They fumble awkwardly with their gifts, handing them over.

"You first, Parker." He hesitates before sinking his finger into the gap in the wrapping paper, listening to the clink of light metal as bright-coloured keychains spill out onto his palm, and he catches them before they can fall. "Sorry, it isn't much, it's just... you said you never had many keychains or badges and stuff as a kid because all the brand stuff cost, like, a fortune." He stares in awe at the little Tardis in his hand, the Yoda, the Lego memorabilia, everything he's ever ranted about or forced her to watch. His eyes lift to hers.

"No, I..." He clears his throat, wrought with unexpected emotion, "I love it. Thank you." She shrugs with a bashful smile, caught in the act of caring, and looks down at her own instead of facing the tenderness between them. "Mine is... it's nothing, really."

"Oh, quiet, you." She's never been one to gingerly unwrap gifts. If she could tear them apart with her teeth, she would, but this time, it feels delicate. The space between them is made out of something fragile. So she takes her time, slides her finger under the tape and true to style, lets the wrapping paper fall to the ground when she gets too impatient.

"No, you didn't. No, you did not." Her jaw goes slack, looking from it and back up to Peter, down, up again. He smiles bashfully. "You bought it for me."

"Well, I..."

"What the fuck! You..."

"Yeah, I mean, I know you used to play as a kid, so Ned and I found some cracking sites, and we got all the expansions and... " She jumps, wrapping her arms around him in a bear hug and squealing.

"Hell yeah!" She pulls away with a toothy grin, staring down at the card again. He clears his throat and can't help but smile too.

White dress. Maya wanted all her bridesmaids to move as one, an organism of pinned-back hair and delicate black shoes. It was unorthodox, as much as the institution of marriage could be, but her cousin didn't mind; she was too busy trying not to be late.

Picking up her sneakers by their heels, she jams them into the tiny gap of space left in the boiler closet by the door. "Peter!"

He's hurrying out, slipping on the blazer he found last minute at the thrift store, a little too cuffed at the wrists. "Remind me why I'm coming again?"

"You invited me to your thing. It's only fair." She shrugs on her jacket to brave the cold outside, stuffing the apartment's keys in her pocket and tapping her heel against the floorboards.

"And?" He eases through the flat, voice moving from room to room, hands gripping doorways as he flicks off every light his roommate typically leaves on, halting at her bedroom and disappearing inside to switch off a lamp.

"And I hate weddings, dude! Hurry it up!" She whines, pressing her forehead against the smoothest section of the peeling wallpaper.

He peeks his head out, clicking the last one off and finally moving to meet her, one curl out of place and falling over his forehead in the exertion it took just to be ready on time, "You've never even been to one."

"I thought I'd manage my whole life without it."

"Not even your own?"

"Peter," She eyes him like he's the one barely handing in papers on time, "Now, come on. This thing is gonna be a funeral if I don't get Maya her something borrowed."

"Something borrowed?" They step out and he helps hold the door closed tight so she can twist the key, get the lock to truly slip through. She turns to face him, checks her phone and gives an impartial grunt. They'd be fine. She finally registers his words, and dips back into her pocket, coming out with a rusted hair-pin and holding it up for him to see. It isn't real gold, but it looks well-loved, well-worn.

"It's her mom's. Snuck it back in the day, nearly forgot I had it," She smiles weakly, shrugging.

"It's pretty," He nods, watching as she puts it back, "She'll like it."

"You think so?" It's rare when she looks vulnerable, and it takes him off guard, a small opening where her eyes clear up, her face sincere, unguarded. She hardly notices as she walks ahead of him for the elevator, and he follows behind.

"Yeah."

They manoeuvre through bodies, what should've been a smaller gathering amassing easily to just under a hundred: family, friends, plus-twos. He's greeted with fervour by everyone that loves her. She said her family hadn't been close, a little dysfunctional, but those he meets embrace him like kin. It feels foreign. So does she, watching her cousin, newly-wed and hugging Peter tight, "I've heard so much about you!"

Peter is surprised. His roommate is too, considering they'd had approximately two 6-minute conversations over the phone since she'd made it to Cambridge, none of which included more than his name and age. "You too!" he says, and it's a half-truth: he'd heard distant anecdotes, begged for more on the subway ride over just to save embarassment. His voice pitches higher as Maya shifts away, tipsy and beaming. With a short exchange, she's gliding through the rest of the attendants, grabbing appetizers and receiving kisses on the cheek. He jolts when his roommate leans in, quiet against the music.

"You were right."

His brows lift just slightly, "About what?"

"She loved it. Nearly ruined her makeup," She watches after her cousin, "God, what a relief."

"A relief?"

"Yeah. I mean, I'm surprised she didn't throw it in my face. She hated that woman." She sips on a flute of champagne, winces and hands it to Peter without a glance. When she finally meets his eyes, wide and innocent, she gives him a small smile, "What?"

"No, I just... I thought it was sentimental."

"No, you're right, it is," He waits for her to continue, tipping the glass back a little and letting the froth gather on his tongue, "I took it after they'd had this huge blow-up. I guess she found it sweet. Better that, than..."

"A permanent wedding ban?"

"Yeah; from all her next ones," She grins, crossing her arms over her chest and staring into the crowd again, finding Maya dancing with her husband, "No," She softens, "I think this is for good."

A quiet fills the air between them.

"You changed your mind on weddings?"

She eyes Peter suspiciously, then looks to the overcast sky, "A little. Did you expect me to?"

He takes a moment to think, "No. I just thought you were worried."

She echoes him, "About what?"

"I don't know. Maybe that this was gonna be some big event that made you feel alone. Or that things were gonna be weird with your family," She watches him, "Isn't that why you asked me to come? Of course, I'm happy to, just..."

"Yeah..." She nods, brow furrowing, "I don't know. It feels weird to go places without you, these days," She laughs off the gravity of it, although it's sincere. They don't talk about it: the comfort they've eased into, the soft and eager friendship. It flits away when acknowledged, they know that. It's safer to keep it close to the chest.

"We should do a bat-mitzvah next, right?"

She nods fervently, "Please."

They're shuffling through the door and into the dark of the apartment, lit only by the dull street-lights outside the window, casting silver shadows onto the walls. She goes for the light above the stove, already blinded by the elevator ride up. Her feet are blistered and she leans against the counter just to slip off her heels, skin sticking to the tiles. The low noise of the apartment thrums in her ears. Peter is unlacing his nicest shoes, a touch scuffed from being dragged to the dancefloor every time a Wang Chung song came on, and when he makes it to the kitchen the quiet is only amplified by her slow breathing, by the tick of the fridge. Her eyes are closed, head throbbing in the absence of sound and the chaos of the rooftop. Peter swallows and her eyelids flutter open, heavy. The little alcohol in their systems is starting to fizzle out, leaving a buzz just warm enough to make their limbs weak.

He whispers like they have to keep quiet, "That was fun."

"It was," she whispers back. Then, with less conviction, "Thanks for coming. You didn't have to."

He offers a tired smile, "You knew I would." She doesn't argue, there's no need to; just pushes gently off the counter with a stifled yawn, struggles to nod in agreement.

"I knew you would. You're always doing that kind of stuff for people," He waits, hands stuffed in the pockets of his blazer, picking lint, "Taking a weekend to do shit you don't really care about. Nice things. Weddings."

She's softer past her curfew, bathing in the sincerity she can afford with the dim light between them, "I care about them," He objects.

"I know. It just surprises me sometimes, the..." She thinks, eyes flitting over his features, down to the knot of his tie, "The good you're capable of."

His brows dip, and the look is so earnest it bruises her, "I wanted to go with you."

"That too," She nods, head heavy, a weak and lopsided grin finding its way to the corner of her mouth. It's bittersweet, "That's nice."

"You say that like you wouldn't do the same."

She shrugs, tucking her hands behind her back, holding her wrists and rolling her shoulders back, "Maybe."

"You do nice things," He presses, eyes finding the ceiling as he runs it through in his head, "You make people feel comfortable; you make them laugh. You make me feel comfortable." Her nose twitches, confronted, "You do all the stuff I'm shitty at, just because you want to."

When she doesn't speak, he goes on.

"Whatever's good in me, it's... it's in you, too."

Her eyes are glossy with fatigue, and they share the quiet for a moment. She isn't sure that anyone has ever said anything that nice to her before, and she says as much, prompting another wounded glance from her roommate, "Oh, don't look at me like that."

He blinks, caught off guard, "Like what?"

"You know how," Her brows furrow in amusement as she searches his bewildered eyes, "Like a puppy who just got abandoned at a gas station."

"I'm not."

"Could've fooled me. I can almost see it: you pity me, Parker," She teases, but a part of her feels raw.

"I don't pity you."

"Yeah, yeah. Enough out of you," She grins.

"I don't." He frowns, grabbing her gently by her upper arm as she turns for a distraction. Her eyes come down to his hand, then back to him dubiously, "I don't."

When he lets go, palms clammy, she keeps eyeing him and smiles to herself, lips pursing to the side.

"What?" He watches her step back to lean against the counter again, one foot across the other, arms threaded across her chest now as her eyes move around the room.

"You know, a little while back, uh... Morgan, the student advisor, he emailed me. Something about an apartment that had just freed up." Peter stills, "And I almost thought about it for a little bit, you know; I still didn't know you too well. You kept burning the food," She laughs, "I was thinking tonight, when Maya dragged you to the dancefloor, and you were just wading there like a new-born fucking calf, and I thought... I'm glad I never did."

It's then that he kisses her.

A / N | I started writing this a year ago, coming back every now and then to polish it until I realised it's fun and it's imperfect and who cares. Hope you enjoyed.

[geminil0vr]

What're You Listening To? | Fred G. Weasley

Fred seems to be making a habit of coming into the library and pulling off your headphones.

CONTENT | Friends to lovers, sharing headphones, dancing in a dark corridor.

WORD COUNT | 3.9k

Fred Weasley was insufferable. Truly.

See, you and Fred had been good friends for a while now, him bothering you whenever he got the chance, you complaining to his brother, George, who only worsened whatever petty argument was taking place. And other than that, you enjoyed their company, his company, you did! But something about the way he'd make his way into the library every few days, scraping a spare chair across the floor to flop down next to you and snatch the headphones off your head, was making you feel all flustered inside.

Your cheeks would warm, your palms would get clammy, and as much as you were used to him and his brother constantly cozied up beside you for most of the day, stealing your bag, pulling at your hair, wrapping an arm around your shoulder whenever they saw fit, this was just different. It felt different. Intimate. And it shouldn't have.

This pattern sinking into your routine was something you'd slowly become accustomed to, ever since the first time Fred did it.

You'd settled down at a table near the back of the library, the orange headphones connected to your walkman pulled firmly over your ears, potions textbook flipped open to page 94, inked quill scrawling over a fresh page of parchment. Something about... no, you can't remember. You can only recall being bored out of your mind, head bopping discreetly to the song playing, lips slightly parted as if preparing to mouth the words.

You almost thought you'd been imagining things when Fred Weasley strolled around the corner, one hand secured to the side of the bookcase, the other stuffed in his pocket as he searched for an author by alphabet. Clearly not what he was looking for, his eyes darted to the bookcase beside you before doing a double-take and letting a cheeky grin stretch over his lips.

"I was wondering where you'd wandered off to!" he exclaimed, and you winced at how his voice echoed in the silence.

"What on Earth are you doing here?" you whispered in surprise, although somewhat content to see a friend (just not one so infuriating).

"Well, that's no way to greet your best friend in the entire world," He pulled a chair out from the side of the table, plopping himself down onto it and resting his head in his hands, elbows knocking against your textbook. You caught it before it could careen off the side and shot him a skeptical look, removing the cushion from your right ear.

"First of all, you must be kidding yourself," He frowned childishly, "Second of all, answer my question. I know you. You're not exactly a library person."

"I can be a library person!" You blinked at him, "Alright, fine. I'm here doing some very important research for a very secret project."

The corner of your lip quirked up unwillingly, "Oh, yeah? And what might that be?"

"... Fireworks."

"Well, would you look at that? I didn't even need to torture it out of you," He gave an exhausted look to the shelving behind you, and you fought a cheeky smile, "Hate to break it to you, Freddie, but someone already invented those."

He groaned, covering his face in exasperation, "No, no, better fireworks."

"Better than the ones from Zonko's?" Fred eyed you, and nodded slyly, "You two are certainly ambitious."

He shot a wink your way, finally noticing the subtle sound of music playing and the strange gadget on your desk.

"What's that, then?"

"Oh," you looked down at it, then back at him, "It's a Walkman."

"A what?"

"It's a Muggle thingy. Plays music."

"Oh..." Fred leaned forward to inspect it, eyes darting from the cable to the headphones fitting snugly over your hair, "The music, it's coming out of those?"

You nodded with a quick smile, zeroing back in on your textbook but preparing for the inevitable.

"Wicked..." he breathed, "Dad'd love that."

He was surprisingly quiet for a few moments, setting you on edge. Suddenly, chair legs were scraping across the polished floor, and out the corner of your eye you saw him sitting, arms leaning over the back of the chair, startlingly close and studying you like a project of his.

You tried to read, but the words blurred into eachother, and you broke. Your eyes darted to the side, "... What?"

"So..." He cocked his head, "What you listening to?"

You cast a look at him, defeated, then moved your gaze to the ceiling in order to focus on the melody, "... Kiss on My List, by... well, I can't remember, and I'm not gonna check for you right now," You looked pointedly to your work, "Why —"

Your voice lifted in question and before you could react, he was whipping the headphones off your head, stretching them (worryingly) wide and fitting them over his own ears. The cord couldn't quite reach, and so he leaned in closer to the cassette player, red hair tickling the wrist of the arm you had propped up on the wooden table. You could feel the steady inhale and exhale of his breath, skin pricking up at the warm air, goosebumps trailing up to the back of your neck. His eyes grew wide in curious wonder, lighting up, his smile lacking its usual mischief as he listened.

Looking up at you in the rather awkward position you were in, cable going through the crook of your elbow and you being much too frozen to untangle it, he bopped his head to the end of the Daryl Hall and John Oates song, tapping his foot against the wooden floor.

"This is really good!" he said, or rather, shouted, into the quiet of the library. You yelped, eyes wide, and stole them back — he frowned and sat back as you set them down onto the table.

Whispering through clenched teeth, you leaned over to him, cheeks still hot from the proximity, "Loud, Fred," you enunciated, "Very loud."

He pressed his lips together innocently, a silent apology, and you fought the urge to snicker at how well he portrayed the picture of innocence.

"Pince is gonna kill you once and for all, you know," You rose a brow.

He made a nonchalant sound, brushing it off, "Pince won't do anything. She's probably half deaf by now anywa—"

The sharp, urgent footfall of the librarian made him shoot up in his chair, untangling himself from the wire, tripping over the leg of the table and balancing ungracefully before making a run for the exit. He stopped for a second, beaming anxiously over his shoulder in goodbye, when Pince set off around the corner of a bookcase. His eyes widened and he raced out, the librarian only able to catch a glimpse of his hair before he fled out of sight.

She muttered something crude about 'his kind' under her breath and turned back'. You inhaled sharply, fighting a grin, hesitating, and then slipping your headphones back on. Christ.

A few days after, it happened again, though this time he was cautious, lifting the cushions to speak softly to you. The action made you tense in uncertainty, and you'd reach up and remind him not to stretch them too wide or they'd break. You found yourself listening to music you knew he'd like, so you'd have something to show him when he came in. You found yourself waiting.

After a few weeks, you noticed he'd never come at a set time. It was whenever he stumbled upon you, looking for something, or when he'd purposely come in to bother you, enjoying the way your nose crinkled at his attempts at distraction, or how your eyes would light up, almost imperceptibly, when he'd compliment a song or get an artist's name right. The corners of his mouth would crease when you asked him about a prank he was planning, a project he'd been working on — when you swore yourself to secrecy in order to hear every detail.

Rock the Casbah, Touch Me, Hooked On A Feeling, were just a few you started with. Then, it was Somebody's Watching Me, Got To Get You Into My Life, and We Didn't Start the Fire; anything you thought he'd like, you played, skipping your other favourites to get to the more upbeat songs, the ones that reminded you of him.

Joking quietly in class, as you were always too nervous to disturb the teacher, playing harmless pranks with you on people who had wronged him and his brother, your sense of justice more powerful than your fear of getting in trouble. When him and his friends would all sit around you in the dining hall, stealing your food, copying your notes with your reluctant permission. None of this compared to the easy hum of conversation, the muffled laughter — fighting to keep stoic in an otherwise peaceful nook of the library. You weren't sure when it had developed into more than just friends, when you'd gotten closer. You weren't sure, but something had shifted, changed. It set you on edge, uncertain, unable to concentrate on mindless tasks, and you cursed yourself: you'd sworn you wouldn't get distracted.

It was hard to focus now, too, the clock taunting you — almost closing time. The library was silent, save some quiet rustling from the front desk, and the sound of one of Fred's favourite songs, Dancing In The Dark, playing softly through your headphones. You rubbed your eyes down at your work, deciding to call it a day. You'd speed through the rest of it inbetween classes, or whenever History of Magic got too excruciating. You got up, smoothing your hands over your jeans and tucking your walkman inside them, then circled the table to look down at your textbook again, making sure you'd included everything you could in the first few paragraphs of your essay before setting out to pack your things away.

"You're here late," A voice rung out from behind you and you startled, twisting on your feet, dry quill in hand. You pulled your headphones down and around your neck, and he eyed the way your hair nestled against your skin, caught inbetween.

"God, Fred, you scared the shit out of me," You set the quill down pointedly, but your posture softened at the sight of him, cheeks dusted over with freckles, hair never quite in the right place. He looked like a wildfire, somehow soft to the touch, "What were you up to this time?"

He folded his hands over his chest in defense, "Why would I be up to anything?"

You blinked at him again. You'd played this game a thousand times.

"Okay, fine, maybe I was!" He threw his hands up and neared your table, examining the clutter and offering with a gesture of his hand to help you clean it up. He wouldn't do it properly, but you let him anyway, trying not to intervene and correct him like you normally would. You'd sort it out in your dorm.

"You wanna elaborate?" You cocked your head, brows drawn up.

He was careful, delicately placing spare quills into your pencil case, twisting shut the lid of your inkwell, shuffling together your papers. He knew how you were. You watched him.

"Nothing extravagant," he started, tilting his head towards you, eyes focused on the task, "Just played the prank of the year on Slytherin."

You joined him, tucking things into your satchel, "Oh, really?"

"Oh, yeah. They're not gonna know what hit 'em."

Your eyes met, and he grinned. Even through the haze of your fatigue, you smiled back, just as he handed you the last of your papers.

Before you could object, he was hauling your bag up and over his shoulder, complaining about the length of the strap, and waving Madame Pince goodbye. You checked you hadn't left anything behind and hurried after him, apologising curtly as you passed.

"Hey!" Fred cast a glance over his shoulder as you caught up with him, "Not fair!"

"Come on, Y/L/N. It's 8 PM. Past your bedtime."

"It is not."

He eyed you suspiciously and your brows drew up in exasperation.

"It is not!"

"If you say so," he said, clearly enjoying the way you were working yourself up, then glanced at the headphones resting on your collarbone, "What were you listening to?"

"Nothing interesting."

"Oh, come on, I wanna hear," he whined boyishly, and when you scanned his features, an obvious smile spreading, your resolve weakened. The both of you had stopped in the middle of the vacant hallway now, facing eachother, early moonlight streaming in through the windows.

You glared at him, decisively taking the headphones from around your neck and twisting the cushion to listen yourself. The corners of your mouth lifted, "I don't think this is really your speed."

"Hey, I like everything you play! I even liked that, uh, Everywhere one, from the other day,”

"You did?"

"And the one about the — the homies, kissing that girl, by um..."

"Weezer?"

He sped past, "And that other one, Under My Finger, was it? By those Rolling Stones?"

You grinned, "Under My Thumb, Fred."

"Right, that!" He softened, "I like everything you play me." You sucked in a breath, chest tight, and cleared your throat in order for your voice not to come out as tender as you felt.

"If you insist."

He pulled off your satchel, setting it down to the side and staring at you expectantly. You went to hand him the headphones, but instead he craned his neck down, and your fingers wavered as they placed the cushions over his ears. Warmth radiated off him — the scent of gunpowder, and cinnamon. You leaned back when he did, stumbling forward a little and apologising when the cord tucked into your waistband couldn't quite reach at such a distance. He smiled at you, undisturbed by your closeness, pressing the device firmly into his ears. He closed his eyes, began to nod his head slowly to the rhythm, and all was quiet for a few moments as he basked in the song. You listened along to the parts of the melody you could hear, low and nearly indistinct through the silence.

His eyelids fluttered open, and he looked at you for a second, before taking the headphones off and pressing his ear against one of the cushions, leaning down to your height. You furrowed your brows until he urged the other cushion toward you, and your breath hitched as you both listened to the song, heads mere centimetres away. Attempting to ignore the proximity, you shut your eyes too. Your chest thrummed.

Since you've gone, I've been lost without a trace

I dream at night, I can only see your face

It came naturally to you, singing along to the lyrics under your breath, and Fred watched you, eyed the curve of your cupid's bow, the comfort rolling in waves off of you, the way your skin reflected the light. Shut his eyes again, a dim smile on his lips. Mouthed along when the chorus started up, to the words he recognised.

As the chorus came to an end, he slowly stood up straighter and you looked to him in disbelief, "No, no, this is the best part!"

You nodded in time to the music you could no longer hear, awkwardly shuffling the headphones back over his ears, disregarding the way your fingers carded through his hair. You knew this song by heart. You stared up at him, searching his reaction, and swallowed in disappointment when he hung the headphones around his neck. You stiffened as he casually slid the Walkman out of your waistband.

"How do you put the volume up?" He looked down at it, then back at you.

You blinked, recovering, "Um, it's just..." and reached to fiddle with a scroll on the top, "You just move this, up and down."

He followed your instructions until the music was loud enough to echo faintly through the corridor. After a few bad attempts, he finally slipped the cassette player into his own waistband, and began swaying along to it, grinning wide. The sting in your chest dissipated.

"I am the music!"

You panicked, shushing him, and he acquiesced, but continued to dance slowly in rhythm to your favourite song.

"Come on, Y/N," he beckoned, and you shook your head adamantly, "Come on!" he lilted, and began singing along to the lyrics clumsily, tripping over the words he was unsure of. He reached out a hand. You sighed, and slipped your own into his, ignoring the pounding against your ribs as he got you to sway with him.

You snorted at him under your breath, and, frightened, though unsure of what, you tugged at his hand, attempting to take yours out of his somewhat gentle grip, "The song's ending! What a shame!"

"Oh, not so fast," He freed your hand to point at you, "I know how this thing works."

"Is that so?" Hands feeling empty, you crossed them over your chest, looking over your shoulder to see if anyone else was around. Your anxiety settled somewhat when you recognised how truly alone you were. This moment was yours and yours alone. If only there hadn't been a live wire in front of you, unpredictable in every way: without him there, maybe you could've calmed yourself down.

He peered at you as you scanned the hallway nervously, and in an attempt to ease your nerves, circled you — Steal Away began, "Another song always plays."

You chewed at your lip, and he shuffled to the intro, finally mouthing along passionately.

C'mon and hold me

Just like you told me

Then show me

What I want to know

"My God." You groaned into your hands.

He continued, turning around you again, almost serenading you and clasping your hands in his with dramatic flair. Your face grew hotter.

"Fred!" you complained, as he spun you to one of his favourites, too.

"This is all your fault!" he exclaimed softly over the music.

"I know it is," You slumped your shoulders, feigning annoyance as he smirked cheekily at you, pulling you in, ruffling your hair.

Why don't we steal away

Why don't we steal away?

After a short while of being forced to play into his charade, you slipped out of his grasp, taking a few steps back and holding an arm out to stop him coming any closer. You patted your hair down, and wondered when and how you'd lost control of the situation so quickly.

"Come on, Fred. Song's almost over."

He nodded his head in time, making his way to you while grooving his shoulders, and you held back a smile, swiping your tongue over your bottom lip. You planted your hands on your hips.

"Is it?"

"Quite, yes."

"Really?" He sung, in front of you now and poking lightly at your sides. You dodged him, grinning but not backing away.

"Really."

"Really?" The tape ended, and he tilted his head down at you with a soft smile. He watched as your grin faded, your jaw set. The silence was humming in your ears, and you could practically feel your heart in your throat, hear you both breathing in sync.

"Enough, Fred," your voice sounded weaker, suddenly.

He swallowed, shaking his head, voice low.

"Why?"

You went to answer, went to defend yourself someway, somehow, albeit futile, when you both jumped at a clatter of footsteps down the hall. You straightened, shaking yourself out of a daze, and marched over to pick up your bag.

"We should get going."

He shook himself out of a stupor too, observing you as you turned around to face him, eager to get back to your dorm. This felt too much for one night. You were one heated glance away from a heart attack. When he didn't budge, you walked off without him, and after a few moments, he called after you.

"What about your Runman?"

You halted, satchel slung over your shoulder, turning around to eye him.

"It's Walkman. You know it's a Walkman."

"Okay, Walkman. And what about it?" He tilted his chin up, challenging you. You shifted in place.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, don't you want it back?"

Your voice got caught in your throat as you took a few steps forward, looking around. No more footsteps. The quiet was even more unsettling, "Yes, right. Just... give it here."

He patted it where it sat between his t-shirt and his jeans, and cocked his head.

"Why don't you come get it?"

Your throat felt as if it was closing up, palms itching, and you stuffed them in your back pockets. Searched for an even response, came up empty.

"Well, why don't you just come here and give it over?" You frowned, avoiding the way he examined you, the way he took a step forward. He was daring you. Daring himself.

"Okay," he said, easily.

"Oh, okay," you stammered.

He took another step, then another, and with a lower of his chin beckoned you to meet him in the middle. Despite how your feet brushed clumsily against one another, you reached him, a safe distance apart. You both stilled.

"Well," you faltered, "Give it over, then."

"Why don't," he started simply, shrugging his shoulders, "You come here, and get it?"

A silence settled between the two of you.

You wavered, struggling and frowning at yourself and your cowardice, squeezing your lips into a tight line. He raised a brow in question, and you wrestled with the knot of anxiety inside your stomach before pressing forward, stopping short when he took the final step towards you instead. A sharp inhale.

Moving slow, he took your headphones from around his neck and gently reached forward, leaning in close, letting his knuckles brush against your skin as he set them back around you.

You didn't protest, couldn't, as he eyed you cautiously, then gingerly drew your hair into his hands, up out from where it was trapped in the crook of your neck. Lowered it back down.

He fixed the cushions of the device, hands lingering. You exhaled shakily when he pulled back.

Not trusting your voice enough to speak, you took to watching his movements instead, tracking each intake of breath, the way his teeth tugged against his top lip. You had never seen him so concentrated, so serious. You wondered whether you'd been the first to see him like this. He stood with the tips of his shoes nearly touching yours, and you rolled back your shoulders slightly, unsure.

You both eyed the cable of your Walkman, stretched taut between you, tucked into the waistband of his jeans. Your fingers reached for it, then paused, stalling. His jaw ticked.

"Oh, just come here," he breathed out in exasperation, running his fingers through your hair and cupping your jaw tightly in his palms as he pressed his lips against yours. You gasped into the kiss, frozen a moment before humming contentedly, bag dropping off your shoulder and to the floor, shaky hands reaching up to clasp his face between them.

The thin cable of your Walkman wedges itself between the two of you, and your hip presses into the play button. With a soft click, Get It On starts playing from around your neck.

[geminil0vr]

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Alicia 20. Uk / Fr Occasional Writer & Philanthropist